


So little have we left that by our own hands we wrought

by kameo_chan



Category: Peacemaker Kurogane
Genre: Drabble, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 07:16:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kameo_chan/pseuds/kameo_chan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hijikata is a man of little regrets, save for this one. A 'what-if' situation set during episode seven of the anime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	So little have we left that by our own hands we wrought

Souji walks on ahead of him, and it takes Hijikata one, two moments before his feet carry him forward and he manages to catch up. His pipe, still unlit, dangles from his lower lip and bounces precariously with every step. The silence between them is one filled with years' worth of unspoken guilt and shame, suffocating what had promised to be an amiable afternoon.

He reaches out and grasps Souji by a skinny shoulder. He hasn't really grow at all, and in between one heartbeat and the next, the difference between twenty four and nine is sheerer than silk. Souji is soft skin and defiance beneath his hand, as always, even as Hijikata turns him around. It's only when they're face to face that Hijikata notices the lines that are starting to form around his mouth and eyes; the small frown that has settled between finely shaped brows. And he wonders, just when was it that the years finally caught up to them?

"Souji," Hijikata murmurs without taking the pipe out of his mouth. This is as close as he will ever come to pleading, because Hijikata Toshizou is too proud to plead and too vain to beg. "Stop this, Souji," he repeats. Souji's eyes meet his then. They are vacuous and glazed, and Hijikata is suddenly afraid. For the first time in his life, he is well and truly in fear of the young man standing not a foot away. This is not Souji. This is Okita, Captain of the First Squad of the Shinsengumi. And there is cold, bloody murder written in that gaze, as surely as his own eyes have ever been filled with it.

"Am I really that much of a mistake?" he asks, voice curiously flat. Hijikata doesn't know how to answer him, and when he tries to draw Souji into an embrace the other man digs his heels in. The distance between them spans more than the absence of touch and just like that, regret snaps him like a twig. Hijikata feels old and used and terribly, terribly tired.

"No," he says with a sigh. "No, the fault lies with me, for forging a weapon I did not trust myself to wield." At his words, Souji abruptly drops the bag of colourful, expensive candy to the ground and fists his hands in the soft cotton of Hijikata's yukata; presses his face to Hijikata's well-defined chest. He isn't surprised when there are no tears forthcoming; no sudden outbursts that follow. Souji has never had much use for tears and the days of his childhood lie far in the past. So instead, Hijikata wraps his arms around the smaller frame and is alarmed to find that Souji is convulsing with quiet laughter.

"You never were a good liar, Hijikata-san," Souji chuckles: a harsh and bitter cadence that echoes in Hijikata's ears. Souji reaches up then and deftly plucks the pipe from Hijikata's slackened lips and replaces it with his own mouth a moment later. It's not a kiss, not really. But Hijikata breathes into it and kisses back anyway. He remembers when the mouth mashed against his was smaller, clumsier. When Souji's hands were still soft and uncallused, before the endless nights of practice when he thought no one was watching had toughened them up. Hijikata closes his eyes and tries to remember the Souji he had known then; tries to reconcile a boy from his past with a young man from his present. And he doesn't let go, not even when the first runners of early evening mist curl chilly fingers around his ankles.

Ahead of them, the last rays of sun fade from the horizon in brilliant streamers of orange and red, and soon after, ants start crawling over Kyoto's finest candies.


End file.
